Jo isn't sure what she was expecting after the name left her mouth too suddenly, but maybe it wasn't this.
Maybe it wasn't suddenly being swallowed in a hug. Maybe it wasn't that her brain was trying to process all the meetings in Shatter, knives and holy water, wary distances with a million questions because of eternal dividing lines, that wore away slower than northern thaw, but went all the same, getting smashed with the thought that he smells right. That dusty, almost trucker, junkyard lot, hunter that hasn't slept for a week, thing.
The one that crawls up into her throat and jabs dozens of needles into the back of her eyes, making her teeth trembled and her fists ball in his shirt for she doesn't even know how long before she notices it. Maybe only a second, or two, before she's trying to stop. Maybe she can't remember the last time. Before the mission, and the door, and hell, and Shatter. None of them were there. Sure, the boys. But none of her people before. Not any of the dozens and hundreds. Not except that day. That day. Mowing them all down on the steps of the RoadHouse. Blood and bodies left everywhere.
It's the wrong smash of best and worst, when she's pulling back, swallowing down a lump that feels at least as big as her own body.
"Me?" Her voice is thin, almost cracked, and she tries to force it to her will. To roll over the steamroller rolling over her. "That's you, old man. I've been here for weeks already, waiting for someone come help take this all apart. You're late really."
Re: Bobby Singer | SPN |New Arrival
Jo isn't sure what she was expecting after the name left her mouth too suddenly, but maybe it wasn't this.
Maybe it wasn't suddenly being swallowed in a hug. Maybe it wasn't that her brain was trying to process all the meetings in Shatter, knives and holy water, wary distances with a million questions because of eternal dividing lines, that wore away slower than northern thaw, but went all the same, getting smashed with the thought that he smells right. That dusty, almost trucker, junkyard lot, hunter that hasn't slept for a week, thing.
The one that crawls up into her throat and jabs dozens of needles into the back of her eyes, making her teeth trembled and her fists ball in his shirt for she doesn't even know how long before she notices it. Maybe only a second, or two, before she's trying to stop. Maybe she can't remember the last time. Before the mission, and the door, and hell, and Shatter. None of them were there. Sure, the boys. But none of her people before. Not any of the dozens and hundreds. Not except that day. That day. Mowing them all down on the steps of the RoadHouse. Blood and bodies left everywhere.
It's the wrong smash of best and worst, when she's pulling back, swallowing down a lump that feels at least as big as her own body.
"Me?" Her voice is thin, almost cracked, and she tries to force it to her will. To roll over the steamroller rolling over her.
"That's you, old man. I've been here for weeks already, waiting for someone come help take this all apart. You're late really."